


Cuddles and Chicken Soup

by learninghowtosmut



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Caring, Couch Cuddles, F/F, Quality Lesbian Content, Sick Character, Sickfic, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 13:26:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14189913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/learninghowtosmut/pseuds/learninghowtosmut
Summary: A bunny-baskets gift for Riri (@ask-deus-romano) who asked for cuddles.I give you sick fic, with all the cliches you could ask for, plus a healthy dose of quality lesbians being totally in love





	Cuddles and Chicken Soup

If it  weren’t for the stern glares of her girlfriend, Chiara would still be stubbornly insisting on going into work today. As it is, however, she’s had her one escape attempt maliciously foiled by a hand grabbing her shoulder at the last second.

 

I’m not ill!” she insists stubbornly, despite the strange feeling in her head, the dubiousness of her balance, and the stuffiness of her nose. 

 

“Look me in the eyes and tell me that again, Chiara,” Carmen replies evenly. The lack of a pet name is a subtle warning. Chiara has never been able to lie directly to her and they both know it.

 

“Okay,  _ fine _ , maybe I am, but I don’t need to stay home! There’s - I can’t afford to miss today! It’s - it’s the launch…” she trails off under the weight of her girlfriend’s gaze.

 

Carmen just shifts her weight to the other foot and looks silently at her. Chiara shrinks sheepishly, then blinks a couple of times. Is the world swaying? She lifts a hand to her head and blinks again.

 

“One day won’t hurt, mi princesa,” she murmurs to her, brows drawing down with worry. “Come back inside. Let me take care of you.”

 

The choice is taken when she sways again and Carmen catches her, easily lifting Chiara up into her arms to carry her back inside.

 

“ _ Hey!  _ Put me  _ down!” _

 

“Remind me what happened last time, hmm? You collapsed halfway through the day because you don’t know how to  _ behave _ when you’re sick.”

 

Chiara can’t deny that, no matter how much she’d like to. She settles in Carmen’s arms with a little pout twisting her lips. If she weren’t ill, Carmen would have kissed away that adorable little pout. As it is, she’s finding it very hard to resist the temptation, even if it does mean that she could be infected as well. She restrains herself. For Chiara’s sake. She can’t play doctor if she too is uselessly ill.

 

The couch, she decides, will be the best place to take her. She can put a series of nature documentaries on Netflix to give them a little background noise. And it gives less distance to travel with the risk of being tripped up by errant cats. And no risk of stairs.

 

She lays Chiara down and sits next to her, calling up her workplace to let them know - with whines of protest in the background - that the light of her life, her sun and stars, the queen of her heart will be unable to come in to work today, and that it would be best to expect no show tomorrow as well. After that comes the weekend, so she’s not too worried. It shouldn’t take more than that to recover from this, no matter how awful poor Chiara feels

 

Now that the choice has been made for her, Chiara is grumbling a little bit but apparently determined to make the most of the inevitable pampering in store for her. Sir David Attenborough’s voice murmurs from the screen and Carmen goes off to fetch The Sick Blanket. It is the softest, snuggliest blanket they could fins, and whenever one of them feels down, the other gets it to cocoon it around her.

 

The first Chiara knows of it is the soft smell from the little bags of dried lavender flowers that were folded up in it the last time it was washed. The scent wraps around her, even through a slightly stuffy nose, and she nuzzles into the softness, half-closing her eyes. She’s warm and cosy and so tired, and her girlfriend is fussing over her so nicely. Perhaps a nap  _ would _ be nice. Not too long, though. Just twenty minutes. Only twenty minutes, and then she’d wake up and see if there’s anything she can do that could be useful. She closes her eyes to the sound of Attenborough’s voice and Carmen doing something in the kitchen.

 

_ Just twenty minutes, _ she reminds herself sleepily.

 

Carmen swears that Chiara’s habit of having a stronger work ethic when she’s ill than she has when healthy is going to leave her with a full head of grey hair by the time she’s thirty-five. She’s making her Mama’s old recipe of chicken soup, something that had nursed her through countless childhood illnesses and injuries - of the body, heart, and soul alike. Every few minutes, she pokes her head around to check up on Chiara and make sure she isn’t trying to sneak out the door again. She doubts it - she’s got a hot water bottle, and the blanket, and a cat curled up on her, and their couch is very comfortable - but her princesa is hard to predict at the best of times. When she’s ill, she’s downright impossible.

 

So it is with a delighted and greatly relieved heart that she sees her sweet Chiara has fallen asleep.

 

Closer to two hours than twenty minutes have passed when she finally wakes up again. If anything, she feels even worse than before and begrudgingly has to admit that, yes, perhaps her girlfriend had a point earlier. She can’t imagine how she’d be feeling right now if she’d gone into work like this, and after all, it would be selfish to spread whatever bug she’s caught.

 

She whines softly, wanting Carmen’s attention. She has passed the stage of stubborn denial, and now she is into the cuddlebug, must have attention stage of illness. This makes up the largest part of how she behaves when she’s ill, and although she’s admittedly a demanding patient, it’s far from being an unpleasant task.

 

Suddenly, the documentary running is irritating her and she wants it  _ off _ . Her head hurts, her throat is sore, her eyes are scratchy, and all the sound is just grating on her. She fumbles for the remote, sending the curled up cat grumpily to find a bed that isn’t going to move, and manages to turn it off. She blinks. The next thing she knows, she’s surrounded by warmth and is solidly in Carmen’s arms, by the feel of it for a while now. Time is not feeling too solid.

 

“Shmurrguh..?” she mumbles, which does not sound at all like the question she’d been wanting or trying to ask.

 

“Oh, you’re awake again?” Cool lips press against her forehead and a gentle hand brushes back her hair. “How are you feeling? Are you hungry, princesa?”

 

She mumbles something incoherent again and tries to snuggle more into her arms.

 

“Mi reina, you need to drink something. And try to eat something, too.” She knows better than to try to get up and abandon the cuddles without warning. “I made some soup, I can heat it up for you and you can have that. Am I allowed up?”

 

“...No,” she manages to say clearly enough, despite having her head pretty deeply pillowed in her girlfriend’s ample chest. It’s soft and  _ warm _ and she can almost pretend that her nose is working enough to get a whiff of her perfume.

 

“What if I promise to come back quickly and bring you food? You need to get something in you, mi vida.”

 

She stubbornly snuggles more into the cuddle, closing her eyes again. Maybe if Carmen thinks she’s napping, she’ll get to enjoy more cuddles?

 

A sigh comes from above her, but she can feel her victory in the hand that is rubbing her back and in the other one that is playing with her hair.

 

She forces herself to stay awake this time, despite how comfy she is with the blanket draped over them both and keeping in the warmth. Which is a good thing, because she’s suddenly aware of feeling colder and colder. It’s not bad enough for her to be shivering, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t still  _ bad _ .

 

“...Pobrecita…” Carmen murmurs, quietly enough that Chiara can barely hear it. “It’s not fun, is it, cariña? Come on - let me check your temperature.”

 

Damn. it seems that she wasn’t fooling her at all with the pretend-to-be-asleep trick. She pouts as she lifts her head up just enough to have the back of her girlfriend’s hand rested over her forehead. Carmen nods and pulls a face like she’s been expecting this.

 

“Let me up, princesa, I’ll get something to get you feeling warm.” This time, it’s clear that she’s not going to be taking any arguments, no matter how pouty or bratty Chiara might decide to get. When she leaves, poor Chiara curls up under the blanket, cuddling a cushion and pouting to herself. 

 

Carmen comes back with a bowl of soup. Chiara is sure that, to most people, this would be considered delicious. She knows that this is an old family recipe, perfected through generations of illness and young heartbreak in need of soothing. She knows that Carmen loves it, and that it’s incredibly comforting for her.

 

She hates it.

  
It tastes terrible to her. Like boiled old socks and sweaty shoes.

  
She doesn’t know why. Everything else Carmen has ever made for her has been mouthwatering perfection, to the point where she often jokes that she’s only dating her for her cooking skills. But the old family recipe chicken soup? It tastes like old socks that’ve been stewed for a week.   
  


And yet, even in her illness, she fucking  _ loves _ her girlfriend. Enough that she acts like she loves this monstrosity, this crime against food, this utter travesty of a soup. For Carmen’s sake. Even when she’s running enough of a temperature to fry an egg on her face and can’t even trust herself to stand up without falling over.   
  


The things she does for love.

 

_ Fucking traitor heart _ …

 

She will not hear a single word against this soup. Not one. She will viciously defend it to her  _ death _ . Even though she dies a little inside with every single mouthful.

 

She closes her eyes, finds herself to be grateful for the first time that her nose is completely blocked and thus her sense of taste is all but vanished, and takes the first spoonful. It is exactly as disgusting as she remembers. She controls her shudder and manages to pretend that she’s enjoying it.

 

Carmen carefully feeds her spoonful after disgusting spoonful, occasionally stealing one for herself. Chiara could never, ever tell her the truth. She’s not a  _ monster _ , after all. And it does make her feel better after she’s had some. It’s just a terrible, terrible shame about the damn  _ taste _ .

 

It’s all worth it to see Carmen’s face when she’s finished. She’s so happy to be taking care of her. Chiara, after all, doesn’t let  _ just anyone _ near her when she’s ill. It’s a great honour, and sometimes not even her own sibling makes the cut.

 

“Cake…?” she mumbles after the last swallow. She needs something sweet to soak up the taste from her mouth.

 

“Well… I don’t know. It might end up making you feel worse, chocolatita.” Carmen frowns in thought and taps her lips. “What if we try a small slice and then see how you feel? We can share one!”

 

When she’s gone back to the kitchen, Chiara can finally let her face relax into the utterly disgusted expression that has been fighting to get out ever since she caught the first whiff of That Damn Soup on the air. But it’s only for a moment; Carmen comes back quickly and soon situates herself cuddling her from behind again. Yeah, it’s all worth it, just to have her arms around her. She feels her press a quick kiss to the top of her head before Carmen - somehow - manages to juggle Chiara, the cake plate, and the fork to feed them both cake without getting the crumbs everywhere.

  
  


Chiara has to stop before they’ve even managed to finish half of it. Carmen is only too happy to polish the rest of the slice off. Once it’s finished, they both settle in for some serious cuddling. There is nuzzling, there are light kisses, there are murmured pet names that get progressively sweeter and gooshier until they’re more sickly than the cake’s icing. She rubs Chiara’s back tenderly and murmurs sweet nothings to her until she falls asleep again. She shifts to find a more comfortable position - pins and needles are never nice - and focuses her attention wholly on the beautiful young woman in her arms. She’s flushed from the illness, but otherwise, sleeping like this, there’s no way of telling just how she’s feeling. Even in her sleep, she has that same stubborn set to her face that seems to have taken up permanent residence.

 

Carmen knows that her sweet Chiara thinks her soup is disgusting. She would be surprised if she didn’t think that, considering that she too has hated it all her life, pretending otherwise mostly for her mother’s sake. Even if it’s never been enjoyable, it still does its job. And the flavour is so tied up in so many of her childhood memories; she loves the recipe for what it means to her, rather than for any appeal it could have to the tastebuds. And it works, too. That’s why she’s not going to let on that she knows. If she did, what incentive would her reina have to eat it? Besides, how could she break it to her that her acting skills are so terrible? What kind of monster would do that?

 

“Get better, mi princesa,” she murmurs, brushing another light kiss over her mussed-up hair. “You kick that disease’s butt.”


End file.
